Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin

by Calvin Trillin

  I counted my blessings: I have a daughter who lives just around the corner. “So what did Bennett do?” I asked.

  “He called Jeffrey, of course, who printed out instructions for taping that even Bennett could understand, and took them over there. Jeffrey’s okay. I wouldn’t call him highly motivated, but he’s okay.”

  “If he has an extra copy of those instructions, I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” I said. “Just out of curiosity.”

  “The next time Bennett called Jeffrey,” Horace continued, “Jeffrey said, ‘What happened, Pop? You lose the instructions and now there’s a Perry Como retrospective you want to save for posterity?’ The kid’s clever. Anyway, that wasn’t the problem at all. The problem was that the Webers’ answering machine got unplugged, and Bennett didn’t know how to reset the access mechanism.”

  “I think there’s a little thing in the back,” I mumbled. “The last time that happened to ours, my daughter happened to be home using the washer, so naturally …”

  “So Jeffrey went right over and reset the access mechanism,” Horace said. “And while he was there he showed Bennett how to set the alarm on his digital watch. Bennett can now do it himself perfectly.”

  “It sounds like Jeffrey might have a gift for helping pre-microchip people survive,” I said.

  “Exactly what Bennett and Linda thought,” Horace said. “And out of that came Jeffrey’s company—TechnoKlutz Ltd. He does an in-home course on how to work your machines. Most of his customers are people whose kids have just moved out. He’s doing so well he might franchise.”

  “The Webers must be proud of him,” I said.

  “They are,” Horace said. “In fact, Linda told him that a big executive like him shouldn’t be living in a crummy railroad flat. She’s hoping that he’ll move back home.”

  1994

  FOREIGNERS

  “I set the record for consecutive columns by an American columnist on Canada. Two.”

  Losing China

  Daddy, I don’t understand what it means that we’ve finally recognized China. Was it wearing a disguise or something?”

  “Yes. For twenty-five years, China pretended to be the Republic of Rwanda. Naturally, we had no idea who it really was, although the disguise was much too small for it, and China bulged out all over, sometimes into Tibet or North Korea. We knew it wasn’t the Republic of Rwanda, of course, because there already was a Republic of Rwanda in Africa. Also, no Chinese diplomat could pronounce the Republic of Rwanda.”

  “Mommy says she can never get a straight answer out of you either.”

  “Well, diplomatic recognition is a very complicated question. Why don’t you ever ask me the kind of questions other little girls ask their fathers? The capital of North Dakota, how to spell ‘disgusting’—that sort of thing.”

  “What is the capital of North Dakota?”

  “That’s a very complicated question. Do you want more Cheerios?”

  “Didn’t I hear you talking to Uncle Bill about the time we lost China?”

  “I’m pleased that you happened to hear one of our foreign policy discussions. Your mother would have people believe that Uncle Bill and I talk about nothing but sex and violence and exotic flavors of ice cream.”

  “If China’s so big, how could we lose it?”

  “We didn’t lose it that way. We lost it the way Uncle Bill sometimes says that he had the Giants and ten points, and lost his shirt.”

  “But if we lost it, we must have had it.”

  “Well, we had what Uncle Bill would call a piece of the action. Then there was a civil war, and the people we didn’t like because they were Communists beat the people we had a piece of, so our people had to take over somebody else’s island and call that China.”

  “You mean there was an island disguised as China?”

  “Exactly. The disguise was too big for the island, of course, and we had to keep stuffing it with foreign aid to make it fit.”

  “So who lost the real China? And please don’t start talking about Uncle Bill’s shirt again, Daddy. It just mixes me up.”

  “Your Uncle Bill had nothing to do with losing China. I’ll admit that he may do some fiddling with the laws governing New York State sales tax now and then, but basically your Uncle Bill is a loyal citizen.”

  “Then who lost it?”

  “Well, fortunately, there were a lot of hearings and investigations at the time, and it was decided that China was lost by the people who were right about which side was going to win the war. To use a very simple analogy, it’s as if Uncle Bill’s bookie predicted that the Giants would lose, then the Giants do lose, so the people who bet on the Giants have the bookie jailed for breaking and entering.”

  “I hate your analogies, Daddy. Just tell me in a regular way: Are the people who lost China the same people who won it back?”

  “Oh no. The people who lost China lost their jobs for losing China and had to live in disgrace the entire time that China was disguised as the Republic of Rwanda.”

  “Then please just give me a straight answer: Who won it back?”

  “Richard M. Nixon won it back.”

  “Richard M. Nixon!”

  “See how boring straight answers are?”

  “And he wasn’t one of the people who lost it in the first place?”

  “Certainly not. In fact, he called the other people traitors for losing it, and he insisted for twenty years that only traitors would point out that the disguise of the island we had disguised as China was getting baggy around the knees. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather talk about sex and violence and exotic flavors of ice cream?”

  “I think I understand. If recognizing China twenty years ago was losing it and recognizing it now is winning it, the people we didn’t like there must have become a lot nicer, so now we like them. What have they done since we lost them?”

  “Well, they killed a lot of our soldiers in Korea and they called us running dogs of capitalism. Also imperialistic lackeys.”

  “Then why do we think they’re so nice now?”

  “Because they also called the Russians running dogs of capitalism. The way our foreign policy works, it’s okay to kill people and call people rude names as long as you don’t like the Russians, because the Russians are Communists.”

  “But I thought you said the Chinese were Communists, and that’s why we didn’t recognize them.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want any more Cheerios? They’re stinky with riboflavin.”

  “Really, Daddy.”

  “Pierre.”

  “Pierre’s a Communist? Pierre who?”

  “Pierre is the capital of North Dakota.”

  “Daddy, Pierre is the capital of South Dakota, you dum-dum.”

  “Well, it’s a very complicated question.”

  1979

  Thoughts on Geopolitics

  It seemed like such a good idea.

  Oh, when did it begin to sour

  And start to be no fun to be

  The last remaining superpower?

  2003

  Bonjour, Madame

  When I read Newsweek’s cover story on what the world thinks of America and Americans, I happened to be in France, so I naturally took advantage of my morning croissant run to check out the Newsweek findings.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” Madame LeBlanc, who runs the bakery, said as I walked in the door.

  “Bonjour, madame,” I said. “Tell me, Madame LeBlanc, what do you think of us Americans at this stage of history?”

  Madame LeBlanc looked at me silently for a while, as if considering her response. Finally, she said, “Comment?”

  “Don’t be afraid to speak up,” I said. “It’s all for research.”

  Madame LeBlanc looked blank.

  “I know you Europeans think we Americans worry too much about what other people think of us, Madame LeBlanc,” I said. “But if we need an example of the problems caused by false impressions of national traits, we need look no further than Mau
rice Chevalier.”

  “Maurice Chevalier?” Madame LeBlanc said. Her eyes shot toward the door, and then she peered over my shoulder as if checking to see if someone was standing behind me.

  “For years, the impression most Americans had of French people was based on Maurice Chevalier,” I explained. “So they expected every Frenchman they met to be a charming, debonair old gent who at any moment might start singing ‘sank Evan for leetle gerls.’ Naturally, they were disappointed when they came to France and the Frenchmen they met were sour customs officers with scratchy pens and some nasty Parisian cabdriver who pretended not to understand their French when they said ‘bonjour.’ ”

  “Ah, bonjour, monsieur,” Madame LeBlanc said, smiling at me in her accustomed way.

  “Oh. Bonjour, madame,” I said. “As I was saying, American tourists were very disappointed to discover that the only Frenchman who acted like Maurice Chevalier was Maurice Chevalier—and he was in California. So they started going to Italy, where they could still run into somebody now and then who acted like Ezio Pinza, and you fellows lost a bunch of money.”

  Madame LeBlanc seemed to remember suddenly that the countertop of her display case needed dusting.

  “So,” I continued, “if a French magazine did a similar survey (although I realize you people don’t do that sort of thing; it would be what General de Gaulle used to call ‘uncool’), you would probably find out that the reason so many Americans think of the French as petty, mean-spirited functionaries … although, God knows, that’s not the way I think of you and Monsieur LeBlanc, Madame LeBlanc—you with your ever-present smile and your cheerful bonjour—”

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” Madame LeBlanc said, putting down her feather duster.

  “Bonjour, madame. What I’m really asking is whether you include yourself among those French people who find us Americans industrious, energetic, inventive, decisive, and friendly. I don’t mean to muddy the sample here, Madame LeBlanc, but I might point out that it’s pretty industrious and energetic for someone who’s supposed to be on vacation to present himself right here in front of your display case every morning at eight-thirty on the dot, friendly as a puppy dog, and I must say that a certain amount of inventiveness was required to discover the baker in town who used the quantity of butter we Americans associate with a week’s supply for a family of four in every one of his croissants—”

  “Croissants, monsieur?” Madame LeBlanc said, reaching for the door of the display case.

  “Precisely, Madame LeBlanc,” I said. “And I would like to say, concerning Newsweek’s finding that the French do not associate Americans with honesty, that the little misunderstanding we had last week about whether it was a ten-franc piece or a twenty-centime piece you gave me in my change was just that—a misunderstanding. Ours is a young culture, Madame LeBlanc, and we’re still not real good with old money.”

  Madame LeBlanc turned from the counter and ducked into the room where the croissants are baked by Monsieur LeBlanc—a petty, mean-spirited functionary I would rate high in industriousness, energy, and butter content.

  “Madame LeBlanc!” I called after her. “Madame LeBlanc! I know Newsweek found that a lot of French people think having Americans around increases the chance of war, but I’d like to remind you that the question was about American military presence. Surely, Madame LeBlanc, a misunderstanding over small change would not lead you to confuse me with some hopped-up G.I. who might decide to lay a ground-to-ground on Leipzig just to put a little zip into a Saturday night …”

  There was no sound from behind the curtain. I stood silently, wondering whether it would have been appropriate for me to explain that I had nothing whatever to do with the American pop culture that the French people surveyed by Newsweek considered so influential. Finally, Madame LeBlanc emerged from the back room. She stood in her accustomed place behind the counter, and looked at me as if I had just walked into the shop.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” she said, in her usual cheerful tone.

  “Bonjour, madame,” I said.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez aujourd’hui, monsieur?”

  “I would like to say, Madame LeBlanc, that when it comes to this Star Wars mickey mouse, not to speak of the Mickey Mouse mickey mouse, I have nothing—”

  “Croissants, monsieur? Brioches? Pains au chocolat?”

  “Nine croissants, s’il vous plait,” I said, holding up nine fingers.

  “Très bien, monsieur,” Madame LeBlanc said, with considerable enthusiasm.

  “I notice that you seem to admire my decisiveness,” I said, gathering up my croissants. “It’s a national trait.”

  1993

  Without His Nurse

  Galyna Kolotnytska, described in diplomatic cables as the “voluptuous blond” nurse who accompanies Libyan leader Muammar el-Qaddafi everywhere, has returned to Ukraine.

  —News reports

  While everybody says, “Just go!”

  His countrymen all surely know

  Adversity seems more adverse

  Without his nurse.

  “He’s bonkers,” people say. “That might

  Be why he rants into the night.”

  His talks gets further still from terse

  Without his nurse.

  The body count is now quite large.

  He’s killed a lot to stay in charge.

  And all this killing must seem worse

  Without his nurse.

  It has to bring this man much pain

  To bear the crumbling of his reign

  And see his fortunes in reverse.

  Without his nurse.

  Yes, Muammar now has to face

  This hatred from the human race

  And angry crowds that won’t disperse

  Without his nurse.

  The banks freeze billions of his loot.

  His people sorely want to boot

  Him out, or put him in a hearse

  Without his nurse.

  Could Allah show a bit of mercy

  And send poor Mu-Mu back his nursie?

  2011

  Polite Society

  Here’s what I would like to say to the Rev. Ian Gregory, who has founded the Polite Society to increase the level of courtesy in England: “Buzz off, Gregory. Get lost. Take a walk. G’wan, get out of here.”

  I think that would get the good reverend’s attention. Then I would be able to tell him, without fear of being interrupted by one of his irritating interjections—you have to guard against people like Gregory tossing in comments like “Oh, do go on” or “My, how very interesting”—that there is entirely too much courtesy in England as it is.

  The author of the New York Times piece that brought the Rev. Gregory to my attention, William E. Schmidt, seemed quite aware that starting a Polite Society in England has a certain coals-to-Newcastle quality to it. He quotes an Italian writer named Beppe Severgnini who “reported in a recent book that Britain is the only nation he has been in where it takes four ‘thank-you’s’ to negotiate a bus ticket.”

  The most irritating thank-you of the lot is the first one, which the bus conductor utters as he stands in front of the passenger, ready to collect the fare. It’s obvious that the passenger has done nothing for which he should be thanked. According to Severgnini, that first thank-you actually means “I’m here.” It could also mean that the conductor is giving warning that he means to out-thank-you the passenger in order to make the passenger feel like a mannerless clod.

  I suspect the Reverend Ian Gregory would take exception to this interpretation, to which I would reply, “Mind your own business, Gregory.” Once that put him in a frame of mind to listen, I would remind him that he lives in a country where a man who did carry coal to Newcastle would, upon arriving at the place where the coal was supposed to be delivered, hand over the bill of lading and say “Thank you.”

  Get this picture: A large delivery of coal has just been made to someone in Newcastle who is up to his armpits in coal. The air is h
eavy with coal dust. Every time the person receiving the delivery wipes his brow—which he does pretty often, since he has broken out in a cold sweat trying to imagine what he’s going to do with more coal—he leaves a thick black smudge on his head. And the ding-dong who has made the delivery is standing there saying “Thank you.”

  To be fair to the Reverend Ian Gregory—and I don’t know why I should be; call me an old softie—he does distinguish between what he calls “genuinely considerate behavior” and simply littering your conversation with a lot of extraneous thank-yous. What makes the work of the Polite Society necessary, he told Schmidt, was the sort of backsliding in considerate behavior that Margaret Thatcher was referring to when she said, “Graciousness is being replaced by surliness in much of everyday life.”

  What I would say to that is “In a pig’s eye, Gregory.” Having thus given him ample notice that I might have a differing view, I would remind him that Margaret Thatcher and genuinely considerate behavior were strangers. She was known throughout the realm, for instance, for bullying and humiliating her own cabinet ministers. What she meant by graciousness was being respectful to people like her.

  Genuinely considerate behavior is the sort of thing that might be practiced by an American on a London bus who realizes that answering the conductor’s thank-you with another thank-you could start a spiral into violence. Armed with that knowledge, he could actually be doing the bus conductor a favor in the long run if he answered that first absurd thank-you by saying, “Watch your mouth, buddy” or “Listen, Mac, you looking to get your face rearranged?”